Indecent

This night has been
and will be - indecent.
Sleeping on my fist,
elbow balanced on the thin arm
of a stiff backed chair.

In minimum lighting,
my father lays heavy in the
Bedwas ward.
The Parkinson's has stripped him,
softened his voice,
swapped stride for shuffle
and infection rides roughshod
like a bossy carjacker
to it's own green
maniacal getaway

What was always meant to be
indefinite future
now egg timer torture
as he sleeps - just momentarily in peace
while I, wide eyed
measure his breath
watching him die
indecently